One Fateful Night
by Enigma TM
Summary: "The oath of brotherhood was a double edged sword. He had never imagined that an innocent woman and a helpless baby would fall in the way of that blade." (Runner-up in the June/July Fete des Mousquetaires challenge themed "It was a dark and stormy night...")


**SUMMARY: "The oath of brotherhood was a double edged sword. He had never imagined that an innocent woman and a helpless baby would fall in the way of that blade."**

**A/N: So... I'm still in the business of writing? What a pleasant surprise.**

**WARNINGS: Possible hints at slavery.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own 'The Musketeers' or any of its characters.**

**The parts that are italicized are meant to portray flashbacks. English is not my first language and this work has not been beta read. All mistakes are mine.**

**~OoO~**

It was a dark and stormy night. The wind alone, its howl and screech akin to that of a haunted spirit, had most people thinking twice before they stepped outside their house. The thick spray of the heavy shower, dancing at the whim of the gale, made it impossible to detect one's immediate surroundings. The occasional flash of lightning was almost like a fleeting reprieve, tearing through the darkness momentarily, before the booming thunder followed.

At a mansion somewhere in Paris, two men took shelter in the stables, doing their best to soothe their skittish horses.

_"How morbidly fitting,"_ one of them thought. Like some higher power had put the darkness and tumult of his soul in full display for the world to see. For him to see.

"Are you certain about this?" his companion questioned, voice shaking with an emotion that he himself was striving to suppress.

Yes, he was certain about this. He was certain that stoking their own fire at the worst pits of hell would not be enough to purge the sins they were about to commit.

"We swore an oath. We honor it."

A disbelieving snort followed his reply. "Honor? Please don't insult the word, Jean."

Something seared inside his chest. He rounded on his friend and roughly tugged at the collars of his overcoat.

Good.

This...the smouldering rage...it felt better. So much better than the stifling burden of guilt.

"You're speaking as if we have a choice in this matter, Georges," he ground out, fingers curling even deeper into the jacket. The clinging rainwater made it difficult to keep his grasp on the leather. He could feel it slipping through his fingers.

Just like their brotherhood.

"Need I remind you of what he has sworn to do if we fail to carry this out?"

The darkness prevented him from seeing his friend's expression. But he felt the other man's flinch perfectly well.

"I still cannot believe that he asked this of us." The quiet whisper of his words would have been lost to the raging storm if Jean was not currently invading Georges' personal space.

"Believe it."

"Seems I am not as good a judge of a man's character as I prided myself on."

"You and me both, my friend."

* * *

_"I say we have a toast!"_

_"To what?"_

_"To our new found brotherhood!"  
_

_"And to the oath that we shall have each other's back, no matter what."_

_"No matter what."_

_"And **never** betray each other."_

* * *

The little room, or rather the hovel that barely passed for a room, right beside the stables was plunged in darkness, save for the dull halo provided by the heavily sooted lamp in one of the corners- the only part of the shack where the roof was not creating a waterfall. Jean could barely make out the silhouette of a figure, seated just beside the lamp and hunched over something it held.

Georges cleared his throat to make their presence known.

The figure looked up. The dim light shone on the head to reveal the face of a woman. The world had not been kind to her. She wasn't a day older than thirty, yet the almost unnaturally pronounced cheekbones, the sticking limbs and the bunch of hair that had already started to grey added a decade or so to her age.

Yet if there was anything in her demeanour that stood out, it was the quiet strength that seemed to exude from every inch of her being, so evident and so out-of-place in this barely illuminated, grimy shack. The steady calmness of her gaze was...unnerving. For a moment, Jean had the irrational fear that it would pierce right through his skin and lay bare his treacherous intentions.

He stomped on those emotions long enough to find his voice. "You need to come with us. Now."

The flicker of surprise in her eyes was gone almost as soon as it appeared, to be replaced by silent understanding.

Hurt coloured her voice as she asked, "So it is that bad?"

"I'm afraid it is," Georges answered.

"What about Antoine? Has he returned yet?"

"He's probably waiting for us at the rendezvous point," Georges replied again. "He told us to get you there."

Jean walked further into the room, careful to avoid the numerous puddles and cascading streams. Pausing in front of her, he could finally have a glimpse of the little bundle in the woman's arms.

A wriggling and cooing little bundle.

He couldn't explain the sudden urge that overcame him. It went against everything he had planned. His knees dropped to the floor of their own accord. His hands automatically shot out towards the swaddled baby and when she gently placed the infant in his arms, a feeling that he could not explain just ruptured within his chest.

The weak light reflected off the fragile skin to lend it a mellow glow. Soft, brown eyes stared up at him from a round and delicate face. Tiny ringlets of dark hair crowned the little one's head.

"I wish he had come to see his grandson at least once," she rued. "He's his flesh and blood, after all. He might have changed his mind and accepted him, if not me."

_"Highly unlikely," _Jean reckoned, but kept those thoughts to himself.

The newborn's undivided attention was caught by the huge thumb hovering over it and he wrapped his baby fingers around it, eyeing the digit like it was the single most wonderful thing in this world.

The words tumbled out of Jean's mouth before he could stop them. "Have you named him yet?"

"Antoine wants to name him Isaac but I wished to call him after my father," she replied.

A tiny squeak and a sudden vigor in the squirming was the only foreboding before complaining whines filled the small space. Apparently, the child had his fill of fascinating over a grown-up's oversized finger.

As Jean watched little Isaac hushing his protests as soon as he was transferred back to his mother's waiting arms, he could almost allow himself to forget the reason why he was there in the first place.

Did he really want to see it through?

"We.. we're running late," Georges broke into the silence. "Your husband will be worried if we make him wait too long for you."

She was too busy comforting her child to look at the other man's face. But Jean did, and the expression marring his friend's features told him that the lie tasted so disgusting in his mouth that he wanted to rip his tongue off.

* * *

_"Do you ever wonder?"_

_"About what?"_

_"That if you ever have children and, God forbid, fall in battle..."_

_"We'll fill your kids' heads with tales of your moronic quests if that's what you're worried about. We're the good, responsible uncles after all."_

_"I hate you both."_

* * *

There were no divine interventions.

They arrived at the "appointed" place without an incident, despite the fact that there was a storm raging.

They led the unsuspecting mother and her boy to a shack. A filthy, leaking, _empty _shack.

They raced out of the slums and turned a deaf ear to the woman's desperate pleas. Pleas that managed to reach them despite the fierce pound of the winds.

* * *

_"Have you lost your mind?"_

_"You two were the last people I expected to judge me!"_

_"Judge you?! What you are suggesting is wrong! It's...it's deplorable!"_

_"There's no way we are doing it."_

_"Fine then. I'll make other arrangements to rid myself of them."_

_"Arrangements? What arrangements?"_

_"I'll **personally **slit their throats if it comes to that. Try and stop me!"_

* * *

The two friends parted ways as soon as they were out of the slums. A chasm, too wide and too murky to be bridged, had been opened by a single shameful act that would never be spoken of again.

Jean's conscience gave out even before he was halfway to his quarters. He turned around his steed and headed back to the slums like the Devil itself was on his heels.

He reached the shack that he had left with his friend not too long ago.

"Marie-Cessette!"

It was empty.

It was too little and too late.

The oath of brotherhood was a double edged sword. It wounded. It protected. He had always known that.

He had never imagined that an innocent woman and a helpless baby would fall in the way of that blade.

**~oOo~**

**A/N: If you have made it this far down, then thank you! You people continue to be amazing :)**

**It's been a while since I have turned on "The Musketeers" and so my memory has been missing on certain details. I'm not sure if General de Foix's first name was ever mentioned on the show but I have noticed some fanfics using the name "Georges" and so I have gone with that. **

**Since Porthos' character in the show was meant as a tribute/throwback to Alexandre Dumas and his father, General Thomas-Alexandre Dumas, I have christened Belgard as "Antoine" after Dumas Senior's father Alexandre Antoine Davy de la Pailleterie, also known as Antoine de l'Isle.**

**Anyway, rants of history trivia aside, if anyone knows their proper canon names, kindly let me know. I'll rectify it immediately.**

**(THE END).**


End file.
